


Resurface

by creepy_shetan



Category: The Musketeers (2014), d'Artagnan Romances (Three Musketeers Series) - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Background Relationships, Community: comment_fic, Emotional Baggage, Established Relationship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Past Relationship(s), TV Tropes, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-18
Updated: 2015-02-18
Packaged: 2018-03-13 14:54:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3385916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/creepy_shetan/pseuds/creepy_shetan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aramis avoids drowning alone, only to get caught in the undertow with Porthos. Set after s2 ep4.</p><p>(Originally posted 2015/2/15 as a fill for a prompt.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Resurface

Aramis had only just returned to his quarters, bleary-eyed but, for the moment, upright. It had been an exceptionally long day, and he was thankful to have a minute to himself at last, even if he didn't enjoy the thoughts that immediately sprang to the forefront of his mind. Rather than flashes of specific memories, the thoughts were pooling around people in his life, the present trailing back to the past. It happened enough, especially in recent months, that he shouldn't be surprised anymore by where the trail led, and yet each time he was caught unprepared. Aramis didn't know how to defend against an internal attack other than dulling the blow with drink or delaying it with distractions.

He tossed his outer garments toward his bed, not particularly caring whether they hung over the edge or fell to the floor while he dealt with his boots. He moved mechanically, his attention ebbing and flowing just like the faces he couldn't stop imagining. Then, as he deposited his weapons in their proper place, Aramis finally felt it. A sensation of pain in his head and warm blood trailing down his chilled face struck him hard enough to make him stumble back into the nearest wall. 

Aramis clamped his mouth shut against the inevitable gag reflex, but it didn't come, the lone memory quickly retreating back to the darkest corner of his mind. Its fellows, the ones of broken bodies and stained snow, had remained behind this time. Another thing to be thankful for this night -- or, truly, this early morning. The night had contained nothing worth thanking besides a steady supply of wine and brandy. Not one of them had even thanked Tréville for his service because that would suggest a progression toward acceptance. For a second, Aramis was back in the tavern: despite the dim lighting and his own intoxication, he could easily see the hollowness in their captain's eyes. 

After the image dissolved, he scrunched his hair between his fingers and sighed sharply. He tiredly glanced around the room. Ignoring the unopened bottle on the shelf, he retrieved the pitcher of relatively fresh water from the table. Aramis had time to scrub his face and reluctantly catch his own eye in the small mirror over the basin before he heard a knock at the door. He smothered any noise he may have made in response and hurriedly dried himself. 

He had been with Porthos not thirty minutes ago, and he could tell by the quiet hesitation (that Porthos would undoubtedly deny if ever mentioned to him), in both his knock and his demeanor at times in the tavern, that Aramis would be with him for quite some minutes to come.

Silently praying that he would not witness the dawning of this particular day, Aramis answered the door. The look on Porthos' face was both satisfying and unbearable, as were his words.

"Sorry. I know it's late--early--whatever, but,” he sighed, his eyes darting away momentarily as he aligned his speech, “can I come in?”

Even if he hadn't seen the crease in his friend's brow or heard the rawness in his voice, Aramis could never turn away Porthos. The darkest part of his mind chose then to remind him of how recent the events with Tariq and Samara still were. Aramis managed to ignore the clench in his gut as he offered a weak smile, opening the door wider. The tightness eased somewhat when Porthos plainly showed relief as he stepped into the room. 

He took a moment to breathe in the cool air and feel it move against his damp skin and hair, and then carefully latched the door shut. When he turned around, he didn't expect to see Porthos shucking his boots as he sat in the one chair in the room, his jacket already laying over the back of it. Finished, his gaze held Aramis' as he slowly rose and stalked closer.

Aramis couldn't move in the face of _that_ , Porthos effortlessly clearing away the myriad of baggage cluttering his mind with one strong swipe. The steady stream of thoughts abruptly dried up into a mere drip, dripping in time with Aramis' pulse. The last bit of coherence he had before pure sensation took over was a simple observation that disappeared as soon as he thought it.

_Well, **this** hasn't happened in a while._

Aramis wasn't sure if the thought evaporated on its own or if it had been shaken loose by his head knocking into the door; the smooth wood was still right behind Aramis when Porthos abandoned his lips for a particularly sensitive spot along his throat that he remembered far too well. Nibbling and growling into the skin there startled a breathy noise from Aramis.

Porthos' arms slid around Aramis' torso and up his back, gathering part of his shirt in one hand as the other traced the dip of Aramis' spine with warm fingertips. As Porthos held him close, he took a moment to breathe in Aramis and let out a rough sigh.

“You smell like you,” Porthos said so softly, so reverently, that Aramis shuddered. He clenched his eyes shut, but he couldn't block out an image of Marguerite, her face frozen in hurt caused by his words and actions. The change in Aramis didn't go unnoticed; Porthos moved away just enough to kiss Aramis at his temple and bury his nose into his hair. His fingers gently brushing through dark curls, Porthos' voice was low and soothing near the shell of Aramis' ear. “Can't get enough.”

“Porthos,” Aramis rasped, his mouth dry and his tongue still half-numb from the alcohol. Despite multiple attempts, nothing else he said made any sense to either of them. So, instead, his hands trailed down Porthos' chest until they circled around his waist. Aramis lightly guided him closer at first, but the motion quickly shifted to a forcible yank that he met halfway. Both groaned, the sounds mismatched but harmonized.

It had been quite some time since Aramis had been with a man, and he could only imagine how long it had been for Porthos; neither was under the illusion that he was the other's first or only. A visit of this nature from Porthos was rare, but Aramis welcomed it just as Porthos welcomed his occasional visits. Over the years, they had developed an unspoken arrangement, one that d'Artagnan was possibly unaware of still and that Athos had long understood, for when talking about their problems did not suffice. Although each instance began for different reasons, it always led to the same result: a comfortable intimacy with a close friend, uncomplicated and without judgment. They counted on each other for a calming respite that thus far had never once added to whatever was plaguing them. Nothing changed between them the next day except a shared feeling of eased tension. 

As of late, Aramis didn't even know where to start talking about his life with Porthos or anyone else, and he certainly hadn't allowed himself to consider approaching Porthos like this. Besides, sex was how he'd become so heavily burdened by consequences in the first place. He would prefer his concerns swirling and sloshing about in his mind alone, even if they were filling him to the brim. He couldn't risk the poison that saturated his relationships outside the garrison seeping through to those he loved and trusted most.

And yet, here they were. Regardless of his efforts and fears, their understanding was now being quietly invoked by Porthos, and Aramis found himself unable to do anything but eagerly follow his lead -- after steering them towards his bed, of course.

Knowing of his own needs and his desire to please, Aramis hadn't had much time or brainpower to consider why Porthos had come to him until later, when their sweat was cooling and their bodies were lazily entwined. Aramis became too far gone much too easily to notice the signs. The way that Porthos asked permission before sinking between his legs, how he gently redirected Aramis from reciprocating, the careful attentiveness with which he set the pace -- all of these things should have immediately told him of how deeply something was troubling his friend.

Porthos must have felt Aramis' brain working as they lay together, because before Aramis could turn to him, Porthos began untangling himself. He rose slowly and returned with a fresh cloth and the basin. Setting the latter on the floor, he tucked himself close to Aramis and began cleaning them both. He kept his gaze on the cloth in his hands as he shared what distressed him.

The brevity of the tale spoke volumes. Together, all of the details that Porthos knew of his parents comprised of little more than an outline. He even delivered it like a well-memorized summary; it was impossible to distinguish which parts were things people had told him, were personal memories, or were theories he'd developed over the years. The background information was then strikingly juxtaposed with the most recent development involving Tréville and General de Foix; the difference between the two parts of the story was akin to that between an old scar and an open wound. Aramis nodded periodically in encouragement as he listened, uncertain of whether Porthos saw the movements or not.

Considering the topic, Porthos' tone was calmer than Aramis would have expected, but then Aramis supposed that many factors were at play: the prolonged effects of a night of drinking, the lateness of the hour, and the general atmosphere of the tavern clinging to both of them yet -- to say nothing of the tumble into Aramis' bed. More than anything, Porthos sounded weary, his voice sometimes whispering but always steady.

Aramis waited until Porthos had finished speaking before he placed his hands over his friend's, gently stopping their ministrations. Porthos relinquished the cloth. Aramis shifted and leaned over the edge of the bed to rinse it in the basin.

“I cannot speak on de Foix's behalf,” Aramis began measuredly, one hand resting under Porthos' jaw while the other wiped the cool damp cloth along his neck. Porthos' eyes flickered up to meet Aramis' when he continued. “However, if Tréville knows anything about your father, he has no reason to keep it from you.”

Porthos sighed quietly in response, closing his eyes briefly. Aramis thought he would lapse into silence and they would each ponder to himself for a few minutes -- a prospect that Aramis did not want, a brief vision of the Queen holding the Dauphin already drifting through his mind, but one he could understand Porthos needing. Therefore, Aramis was visibly startled to hear Porthos speak again so soon, hoping that his outward reaction to the sound masked his strong visceral reaction to the specific wording Porthos used.

He couldn't muster much, but Porthos spoke with conviction as he said, “I know there's something he's not telling me.”

Each of those words cut deeply into Aramis, his guilt rising like a wave. At the same time, the river of faces flooded back to the forefront of his thoughts. Tréville swept past to reveal the Cardinal and the Duke. At their feet lay his brothers, connected in a meandering line that culminated with Marsac, whose empty eyes somehow bore straight through Aramis despite no longer having a soul behind them.

A question was ready to spill from Porthos, his lips parted and his brow furrowed, but Aramis held his shoulder with a light grip (a steadying grip) and leaned in to kiss the corner of his mouth. Their beards rasped together as their cheeks slid past each other, Aramis settling his face into the crook of his friend's neck. He tasted only a hint of sweat lingering on Porthos' skin as he spoke into it.

“I pray that you are not right.”

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt: any, any, [Break the Cutie](http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/BreakTheCutie)  
> The theme: TV Tropes  
> Originally posted [here](http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/596938.html?thread=83265482#t83265482).  
> I only own the writing.
> 
> For the curious... These idiots are set on ruining me. I thought my first shot at this fandom would be Athos-centric, but somehow Aramis distracted me from him. Then, I'd planned to make this gen and canon-compliant, but Porthos had other ideas. 6^^;; I expect d'Artagnan or Tréville will strike any day now...
> 
> Also, I failed at Aramis bingo, damn: I didn't mention Adèle or Isabelle (Sister Hélène), and arguments could be made for Agnès and Emilie and maaaaaybe Ninon. I have no idea if any of those accent marks are right, btw, b/c the BBC site doesn't use any for anyone's names. (I'm keeping "Tréville," though. =P)


End file.
